


take your wits to the crossroads when you get there

by Huff_Puff



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Character Study, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huff_Puff/pseuds/Huff_Puff
Summary: The facts are this;The Joker has no rhyme or reason for the crimes he commits. The Joker revels in the suffering he inflicts upon others with no sign of remorse. The Joker soaks up Batman’s attention like the bad kind of mould; left to fester too long and suddenly the place is covered in black spots and stench and the only solution is to torch the place and get the hell out of dodge. The Joker needs to die. The Joker deserves death.Murder. It rings in your brain and brands itself in the fleshy tissue as you mentally calm yourself down. Your mind remains disquiet.---Tim struggles with a hard decision.
Kudos: 48





	take your wits to the crossroads when you get there

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, this is a character study and also a philosophical study for myself. I'm not a very good writer so bare with me; I will improve.
> 
> This story is not told completely linearly, so please keep that in mind when reading

Plotting a successful murder takes more than just the act of committing the crime. You have to keep your eyes peeled. You have to keep your weapons sharp. You have to have a perfect cover. You have to get away with it. You have to plan to fail.

You do not have time to do all of them. It is only a matter of when.

He's been out of Arkham for two weeks, and has been completely silent since the last attack. 

You know where he's hiding. 

And you will kill him.

Because you must.

* * *

Red Robin pushes a pile of rubble out of the way with his boot. The east wall is crumbled down in places, blown up by the Joker’s charges. He squats down and moves a chunk of cement out of the way, bending over his knees to pick up the chunk of ceramic lodged underneath. He can see the slope of the doll’s nose above the crack that shattered it from the rest of it’s head. The eye from the socket is gone, and he’s hit with the sudden urge to  _ find it, _ to put it back together and cover the crack and put the doll back together piece by piece, like it had never been destroyed in the first place.

He hasn’t spoken a word to anyone since the news came in. Arkham breakout. Joker freed. Explosion inside the Fox Foundation Children’s Ward at the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital. Death toll not yet accounted for. 

Red had been at the same hospital a mere few hours before word got out about the breakout, hosting a charity fundraiser for the new intensive care unit Wayne Enterprises was funding. It included new state of the art tech from the R&D department, designed to siphon and separate Joker Toxin from the bloodstream. 

The wing was unique for its rogue-related care units, with specialized nurses rotating around the clock for each. Some of the kids' healing time was minimal; some time dealing with their wounds, some time grieving, and some proper counseling did wonders for them. Others took more coaxing. Some made no progress at all. It was mental scars more than the physical ones that broke them, he understood. The things a person sees - an adult, let alone a child - under any of their rogues' most dastardly concoctions was enough to break someone who hadn’t been trained or already seen more than enough to break them. It was a product of living in Gotham; you either lived long enough to tough it out, or you didn’t. The statement ran true in more ways than one. But the Joker victims always seemed to take the most time to begin recovering, if they ever did. Even Scarecrow survivors could find a life beyond fear with enough time and trauma-healing.

Only the Joker targeted children, defenseless kids. Sure, sometimes children got caught in the crossfire, He'd seen enough turf wars between Two-Face and Penguin to know that, but they were never the target. Only the Joker was screwed up enough to actively point his finger at kids and say  _ "you". Despicable. _

Room 603 had housed a recovering burn victim who got tangled up with Firefly during a gas station robbery on her walk home from school. He had looked at her chart while he’d been taking a tour of the new wing. Set to be discharged back to her family in the Upper West Side in about a month’s time.

She’d said hello to him and held a surprisingly engaging conversation about Gotham’s flagging education system and the pros and cons of tenure. She was a friendly kid; a  _ smart _ kid. She’d deserved better than the things Gotham had to offer.

He pockets the broken shard in one of his empty bandoliers to analyze later and straightens back up with a shaky sigh of air. This is only one room of the many that he needs to round up. One of many casualties to count. He knows before he even bends over her collapsed bed frame to touch his fingers to her pale wrist that he won’t find a heartbeat. He knows that the dread will turn his feet to lead before the end of the night, as each room tells a similar tale.

The other bats are on their own floors, either helping the GCPD get injured civilians to an uncollapsed portion of the hospital for medical care or casing the other bombed rooms.

Except B, who is mid-frenzy as he tears through Amusement Mile in search of the clown and justice. 

The night drags out long. It’s almost sunrise by the time the Bats clear off back to the Cave, leaving the GCPD to finish sectioning off the crime scene. Red Robin calculates the wounded, minor and critical, and knows that there will be more deaths before daybreak. 

Red parks his bike next to Wing’s cycle as the older man strips his domino off and tosses it on top of a work desk. He makes his way to the locker room without a word. His shoulders are drawn up tight towards his ears, tension layed out like a map of anger across his back.. Red only gets a short glimpse of his expression, but it’s haggard. He knows the feeling. 

Robin’s still in uniform, taking out his frustration on a practice dummy. The marks he hits are almost kill shots. Red feels like he should probably warn him to ease up before Batman gets back, but he also doesn’t feel like getting a batarang to the face for the effort. Besides; he doesn’t want to go there right now. He’s tired.

Dick is in the end shower stall; Red can just see the top of his head, hair stuck down against his scalp as he rests his forehead against the tile. Water batters his shoulders, the liquid scalding enough that he can see it steaming above the stall. Taking his uniform off quietly, Tim feels an old wound suddenly pang in his chest, squeezing him until he can’t breathe. Every silence stretches and infects it with a quiet seed of bitterness. Tim doesn’t bother him, just shucks his boots off in the corner and gets into the furthest away stall to try and wash off the rancid feeling beneath his skin.   
  
They wash in sillence. Tim shuts his eyes and tilts his face into the stream, grasping for a bar of soap.

_ He’d caught him escaping through an alley behind the hospital, dropping out from a fire escape to block his escape route.  _

_ “Oh, it's one of the _ brats. _ Tell me; where’s _ Batsy?  _ It's about time we caught up for a laugh.” The Joker is a cackle. It's a high, sharp peel of laughter that trails off into a slow clicking chuckle of enunciated 'ha's'. A mockery of the real thing.  _

Tim rubs a hand down his side, tipping his hip under the stream of water and clenching his teeth to keep back a hiss of pain. 

_ Red Robin isn't supposed to engage with the Joker without support - has already passed his position off to the closest Bats - but he still has to stall him. He can't just let him  _ escape, no _ t when there is a burning hospital behind him and the man is  _ crowing _ in delight. _

_ “Oh don't worry, I’m just the  _ opening act!”  _ Red’s fist collided with the Joker’s face, slamming the wafery man into the alley wall. _

_ The Joker's Glasgow grin spreads high across his cheeks as he backs up, blood streaming down his nose and an impressive bruise beginning to splotch over his face. Even for him, his smile is grotesque. He's annoyed, doesn't like it when someone other than Batman gets a slight over him; Red knows it's on. _

_ “Oh, yeah, bird brain? Well, let's practice some  _ material,  _ then.” The Joker reaches into his purple coat. _

_ Red skirts to the side, flicking out his Bo staff to its full length and smacking the projectile that flies towards him away into the sky. A boom resounds above, shaking the buildings either side of the alleyway. Another detonator and then another follow the last, Red's staff spinning between his hands as he knocks them out of blast range.  _

_ “Starting to get tired of the same joke, man!” He hollers across the quiver of the building’s foundations. “Maybe some more time in Arkham'll give you a chance to come up with something original!" _

_ “ _ RR, ETA 1 minute,”  _ Nightwing calls in his ear as the Joker's expression twists with unconcealed  _ hatred _.  _

_ “Oh, not ORIGINAL, hey!” The Joker shrieks with a cackle of rage, a flash of metal appearing from his coat.  _

_ Red swears, ducking out of the pistol's range as he is chased by bullets that smash into brick behind him. One clips the side of his arm and he grits his teeth against the slash of pain but doesn't cease weaving in and out of the Joker's way. The Joker drops his weapon and pulls out a second pistol, taking aim. _

_ “Red watch out!” Nightwing calls across the comm, and from above. He jerks his head to the noise and when his attention draws back a moment later it's to the Joker running at him at breakneck speed, gun barrel aimed for his head. He rolls out of the way and then thrusts his palm up under the gun as it gets within arms reach, sending the bullet aimed for his skull into the wall above him. The sound of the gun makes his ears ring, and the moment of disorientation gives way to pain that blacks out his vision momentarily. Heat flares up his side and he knows he's been hit. _

"RR!” _ Nightwing is on the Joker’s shoulders before Red can open his eyes again and think to look down at the knife sticking out of his side, through a gap in his armour. He should have been watching the Joker's secondary hand; he knows he got lucky. The clown shrieks as he's flipped backwards, somersaulting in the air until they're both on the dirty concrete ground and Nightwing is pinning him down. _

_ Red inspects his injury. It isn't as bad as it could have been; he hadn't had a chance to really drive the knife home, so he decides pulling it out won't cause more complications. Plus, it's the Joker, so it's probably a rusty knife he found in a gutter. It doesn't take too much time to staunch the bleeding, and he sits up, slapping a bandage over the bleeding cut from his utility belt. It's a temporary fix, but it will keep it clean for the ride to the Cave. He stands with his Bo staff’s support, looking over at Nightwing as he begins to tie up the struggling rogue. The Joker begins to giggle, and Red tenses. _

_ “Nightwing, move!” He shouts. Nightwing dives off of Joker as a button on his coat sprays him in the face. From Red’s place leaning against the wall he can see Wing’s shoulders begin to spasm with the telltale shake of being hit by Joker toxin. Well,  _ shit.

_ The Joker unravels the ropes, standing to dust himself off as a shadow falls across the alleyway. Batman. The smile on his face grows bigger, then bigger some more. _

_ "Well, thanks for the warm up act," grins the madman. "But I think  _ my _ material is better suited to an audience who appreciates my  _ originality _. What can I say? The kids  _ love _ a good clown." _

_ Batman descends upon the alley as the Joker throws down a flare bomb at Red’s feet. It blows up right in his face, white filling his vision and making his ringing ears shriek. He claps his hands over his ears, teeth clenched against the noise, and when he comes back to it’s to Batman administering Nightwing an antidote as he convulses with laughter on the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks. Red rolls sideways, struggling up with the wall's leverage.  _

_ He already knows. The Joker is gone.  _

_ “Disappeared,” growls Batman. It’s his ‘I’m disappointed in you and trying not to show it’ voice. Red clenches his jaw tight, stares Batman in the face as he holds the bandage to the cut. “But not for long; Red Robin, recon with the team. Take Nightwing with you and get your injuries inspected back at the Cave. Oracle will man the comms from there.” _

_ “Yes, Batman. You’re going after the Joker?” _

_ Batman’s mouth pursed near-interceptably. It’s his ‘this is a foolish question’ face. “Of course. Gotham can’t afford to have such a wild card running about.” _

Except, he was always going to be their wild card. Their not good, very bad, always problematic wild card. The Joker wasn’t just a normal criminal. He was, he was something else entirely. Something so evil he put a taint onto everything he touched. Tim could count the scars the Joker and associates had given him, but it would be a very long, and very traumatic experience. 

_ “Understood B.” At the end of the day, the Joker was just another criminal that needed to be shown justice. _

Except he wasn't-

Tim shuts off the shower, blinking his eyes clear. He's alone in the locker room. Dick left who knows how long ago, but when he steps out with a towel wrapped around his waist it's to a clean pair of sweats laid out for him with the hoodie on top. He can tell Dick left them, because Alfred would have ordered the pile from bottom to top. 

Tim can recognize Dick's peace offerings. He just pretends he doesn't.

He pulls on the sweats and makes his way back into the Cave to get checked up by Alfred and to write his report. Voices grow louder and angrier with each step. From the heat he hears, it sounds like they've been going at it for a while. 

“... _ how many fucking times _ do I have to tell you that he's bottom feeding scum, Bruce?!” Jason. He can make out Bruce and Jason standing square on with each other as he approaches, side eyeing them as he walks over to wear Alfred is placing a stethoscope in his ears, frowning passively to himself. Tim sits on the cot to let him do the base check up. Bruce has the cowl down, and Jason is gripping his Hood helmet like he wants to throw it at Bruce’s thick skull. Dick has his arms crossed between them, freshly showered and glancing from person to person like he’s watching a particularly intense game of ping pong. Damian stands at Bruce’s heels, all jaw clenched and nose tossed high in the air, still in the Robin suit but his mask squished into his fist.

“We do not kill.  _ You _ do not kill-” comes the standard reply. Bruce's voice is half a growl. Jason looks like he’s mid-conniption, his expression twisting from angry frustration to bitter resentment. This argument never works, and Tim knows Bruce knows it. 

Alfred tuts quiet under his breath, opening an adhesive strip of butterfly stitches and beginning to pull the wound closed. He doesn’t think the admonishment is for him.

“ _ HE JUST BLEW UP A FUCKIN HOSPITAL, BRUCE! FOR FUCKING  _ KIDS! _ Surely  _ that crosses some line of yours! _ ”  _ He throws his hands up with something Tim strongly suspects is distress. Jason isn't as good at pretending as he likes to think. He grabs at his hair and pulls once, then leans forward and jabs Bruce straight between the Bat on his chest. “At what point is he  _ beyond _ saving?” 

Tim knows what he's going to say before Bruce says it. He wishes he didn't. He closes his eyes and wishes Bruce would just not open his mouth and say- “You weren’t.”

A penny could have dropped in the silence that followed, and then Jason scoffs, thick in the throat. Alfred’s hands are steady as they finish the last stitches, but Tim reads the stiffness in his joints as disappointment.

“ _ You- _ you're really comparing me to him, huh?” He laughs humorlessly, stepping back like he’s just completely over it, or like he's been struck, but Tim thinks he really just needs the added distance. Jason's jaw  _ ticks, ticks, ticks.  _ His eyes dart around, landing on the exits, on each of them in turn - even Tim, tucked back in the shadow. He scoffs. "Wh- y'know what? You can actually go and  _ fuck _ yourself.” He’s stomping off for his bike before he even finishes talking.

“Jay, come on, Bruce didn't mean it like that-!”

Damian clicks his tongue at Dick as he makes a quick beeline towards Jason's retreating back. "He would not have said it if he did not mean it, Grayson.”

“Damian, you're  _ wrong  _ and you're  _ not  _ helping.” But Dick doesn't follow Jason out as he gets on his bike with the Hood on his head and peels out of the cave. Tim wonders if that is a mistake.

Bruce lingers for only a moment before he sweeps away without another word, heading for the computer. What Tim can make out of his expression is a controlled impassive. 

His mouth moves into a frown. He hates the feelings the Joker always dredges up in the family. He hates hearing the pain that writes Jason's words be cast aside like obsolete trivia. He hates that Bruce can't  _ tell _ Jason he's sorry and he cares. He hates that Damian butts his head into problems that he doesn't understand. He hates watching Dick fall all over himself trying to keep mended bridges from breaking apart when he hasn’t even built secure foundations to mend them on. 

Mostly though, he hates the chamber of ice that grips his chest. He hates the cold hand that grips his heart and turns soft flurries of snow into great giant blizzards. He hates the chilled  _ rage _ that leaves his hands still and his eyes steady. 

Tim breathes out slowly, eyes closed. A t what point is somebody beyond saving? 

He stops that train of thought in its tracks. Not gonna help the situation here, and certainly not worth dwelling on. 

He straightens his sweats and jumps off the table. “Thanks Alfred.”

“Try not to fall on any more knives, Master Timothy,” retorts the dry butler. Tim smiles his best ‘I’m an idiot but you love me’ smile as he trots back off to the computer to write up his report for the night. 

Dick is typing his report up on the batcomputer beside Bruce on a smaller screen, and he noticeably perks up as Tim approaches. He doesn't see where Damian has gone; probably upstairs, but he takes note of his disappearing act in case any attacks were incoming in his future. 

Dick turns to look at Tim and straightens in his chair. Tim nearly groans; he should have known he'd be in a schmoozy mood tonight.

He’ll want to bond, and talk about feelings. The bubbles in his stomach began to freeze and he slows his step. Dick notices and his smile dims, but still he says, “Hey, Timmy! Saved a spot for you.” He nods at the seat beside him, the last free seat at the batcomputer.

“Oh...thank you,” says Tim as he sits woodenly, inputting his password and opening a document to begin typing today’s report. Dick looks like he’s waiting for Tim to say more, but he just awkwardly side eyes him until Dick is forced back to his own write up.

Tim finds that typing out his reports gives him closure. He likes the rhythmic tap of the keys in long silences. He likes going back and reading, and rereading, and  _ rereading _ until everything reads  _ perfectly.  _ Just how he likes that. 

Jason would call his behaviour pedantic. Tim calls it soothing. 

It takes him almost an hour of typing and dodging Dick's careful needling to finish his report. Dick had gotten up twice to pace a little in that time before sitting again and trying to gain Tim's attention. Can he not take a hint? Tim just wants to do his work in  _ peace. _

"Hey uh, Timmy, you think you might stay at the manor tonight?" Asks Dick. The slow lilt in his voice made Tim look at him. He actually seems nervous about asking. What did he think Tim was going to do? Loose the fucking plot?

"You know I'm busy, Dick," he said. 

"Busy now, but what about later? We could-"

The rest of the report can wait until he gets back to the Nest, he decide. If he leaves now he can be home by 4 am. You level him a look that begs him to just drop it. "I said I'm  _ busy." _

Dick takes the hint tonight. "Oh, yeah, no, that's totally cool...some other time, alright?" Did Dick sound desperate? Uh, hell yeah. He wasn't even trying to hide it at this point. Did it make Tim feel bad? Not when he was used to dodging these weird bonding sessions Dick was trying to impose.

"Sure, Dick," says Tim, aiming for impassive as he sends the report to himself and closes out to the home screen. He stares at his face in the blank gray background. "Some other time."

_ At what point is somebody beyond saving? _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments, constructive criticism appreciated


End file.
